est glad rags make three long noses at the poor little dowdy
fellows as they go fluttering away to try to find another home."

Vane laughed gently, and held out his cigarette case to the girl. And it
was as she turned to take one that he saw her eyes were very bright--with
the starry brightness of unshed tears. "Sure--but it's nice to talk rot
at times, my lady, isn't it?" he murmured. "And, incidentally, I'm
thinking I didn't tell the grey girl's story quite right. Because it
wasn't herself that she was thinking of most; though," and his eyes
twinkled, "I don't think, from my ideas of her, that she is cut out for
love in a cottage, with even the most adorable Prince Charming. But it
wasn't herself that came first; it was pride and love of home and pride
and love of family."

The girl bit her lip and stared at him with a troubled look. "Tell me,
oh man of much understanding," she said softly, "what comes next?"

But Vane shook his head with a laugh. "Cross my palm with silver, pretty
lady, and the old gipsy will tell your fortune. . . . I see a girl in
grey surrounded by men-servants and maid-servants, and encased in costly
furs and sparkling gems. Standing at the door outside is a large and
expensive Limousine into which she steps. The door is shut, and the car
glides off, threading its way through the London traffic. At last the
road becomes clearer, the speed increases, until after an hour's run the
car swings in between some old lodge gates. Without a sound it sweeps up
the drive, and the girl sees the first glint of the lake through the
trees. There is a weeping willow too, and as her eyes rest on it she
smiles a little, and then she sighs. The next moment the car is at the
front door, and she is in the arms of a man who has come out to meet her.
She calls him 'Dad,' and there's a boy just behind him, with his hands in
his pockets, who has eyes for nothing except the car. Because it's
'some' car. . . . She spends the day there, and when she's leaving, the
man she calls 'Dad' puts his hand on her arm. He just looks at
her--that's all, and she smiles back at him. For there's no worry now on
his face, no business trouble to cut lines on his brow. But
sometimes--he wonders; and then she just smiles at him, and his doubts
vanish. They never put it into words those two, and perhaps it is as
well. . . . A smile is so easy, it conceals so much. Not that there's
much to hide on her part. With her eye